


The Replacement

by VigilantShadow



Category: G.I. Joe (Marvel Comics), G.I. Joe - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-25
Updated: 2014-02-25
Packaged: 2018-01-13 17:52:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1235650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VigilantShadow/pseuds/VigilantShadow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"She can tell he isn't her husband, would have been able to even if a letter hadn't been slipped under her doorstep outlining Fred's death in vague detail." Mrs. Broca's thoughts from the day her husband is replaced to the day she leaves Cobra.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Replacement

She can tell he isn’t her husband, would have been able to even if a letter hadn’t been slipped under her doorstep going into the vague details of Fred’s demise. The children can tell too, can smell that he’s wearing the wrong cologne, can see the way he styles his hair to the left, rather than to the right.

She wishes she could tell them, but both her real husband and his masters had told her not to. “They’re too young to keep secrets,” he had said, and he sounded so _reasonable_ that she wanted to scream at him. Of _course_ they could keep secrets, she wanted to say, haven’t you seen them? Haven’t you seen Sean lying to his friends about what you do? Haven’t you seen how almost-honest Heather sounds when she tells her teachers that she thinks America is the best country on Earth?

She doesn’t keep the “secret” out of respect for him. She’d tell her little ones everything if she thought she could get away with it. But she doesn’t know this new man in her husband’s skin, can’t trust him not to tell on her if the children suddenly seem to know more than they should. In fact, she’s almost sure he would. He’s already given up his own life to serve Cobra, so why wouldn’t he be willing to give up hers?

So instead, she pretends. It’s hard, keeping up the charade, but not as hard as it should be. She has a talk with him on the first day, tells him exactly what he is allowed to do. He knows not to try anything behind closed doors, and that when they are in public he can hold her hand and kiss her cheek, but nothing more. He is courteous enough to accept these conditions. He tries to be a good father for the children. She lets him, because the children _deserve_ a good father.

Fred wasn’t, she realizes one night while she’s lying in bed, staring at her not-husband’s back. He yelled too much, was gone too much, and expected too much out of all of them without giving anything back. This new man tries far too hard to ever succeed at being him. As time goes on, she realizes that he _wants_ them to like him. She wonders what made him so desperate for a new life that he would steal another man’s face and slip into his home. She wishes she knew his name. She wishes she knew how he got here.

She wonders what made her husband agree to be the first of the Crimson Guardsmen. He wasn’t nearly as loyal to Cobra as he acted, so it wasn’t because he felt obligated to accept the job. She thinks it was selfishness. He’d always wanted a pretty home, a pretty wife, perfect children and a perfect job. He’d already managed the second, believed he’d managed the third, and this job gave him the first and last. She wants to go back in time and punch him for accepting it. Ask him if he realized that they expected him to die. That’s the only reason, she thinks, that they would have prepared so many replacements ahead of time. She wants to ask this new man whether he realizes that they expect _him_ to die as well. She thinks that he does. She doesn’t think he cares.

After a few weeks, he begins talking to her, in private. She gets her wish, or at least part of it. He tells her about himself. He tells her about Vietnam. He tells her about gunfire. He tells her about the anti-war boys who spit on him when he came home.

He doesn’t tell her his name. He doesn’t tell her any names. He confides to her that he’s trying to forget, that he’s almost succeeding. He can still see the men who left him in the jungle, but their faces are faded out.

She holds his hand and tells her about herself. She tells him about how she wanted to be a doctor. She tells him that Sean isn’t Fred’s son, that she was in the middle of college and the father told her that he’d stick around and get a job to support them both so that she could live her dream. That the draft made him break that promise. She tells him about the children they now have to pretend are his.

She doesn’t tell him that when she met Fred she thought he was the perfect husband. She doesn’t tell him the day she realized she was wrong. She tells him about her husband’s temper and all his little imperfections. He tries to replicate them, but fails. He has his own flaws, and she can tell he is uncomfortable with the idea of taking on any more.

She doesn’t fall in love with him, and he doesn’t fall in love with her. But he falls in love with the children, and that’s good enough. Besides, he’s a good enough listener, and a good enough friend. She hopes he doesn’t die. She doesn’t think she could go through the process of learning about another not-Fred.

One Tuesday afternoon, he leaves to go on some mission or other. He returns late that evening, his clothes still drying from falling off a boat. He tells her about the man he saw, whose face came off when he pulled. He tells her about how the man looked ever so slightly familiar. He has nightmares that night. They wake her up, and the two of them give up on sleep. They lean on the kitchen counter, side by side, shoulders touching as they drink hot cocoa and don’t talk about what just happened.

He leaves again the next Tuesday. He needs to do something, he says, but he won’t tell her what. She can’t stop feeling like they are nearing some sort of end. He doesn’t come back home that evening, or the next. Just as she is preparing to call Cobra, to tell them that he isn’t _ever_ coming back, the doorbell rings.

He’s standing there, looking sheepish. There is a car in the driveway that she doesn’t recognize, its engine still running and two men sitting in the front seats. He tells her to call the kids, and then tells them everything. He tells them things he has already told her, but never thought about telling the kids. He tells them all the little things that he had tried to forget.

He tells them his name.

When he tries to leave them, she almost rolls her eyes at his back. Instead, she pushes the children toward him and reaches inside the house for the suitcase she always keeps packed.


End file.
